The Eye of a Goddess
by Alice V
Summary: My name is Michele Rocha and I am here to tell you my story - a story of hope, suffering, of being lost and finding out truths that shouldn't be told. And among all, I'm here to tell you about my journey, our journey to find an eye lost a long time ago...


**Chapter 1. That's my life**

_Oh__ Muses, please help me, guide me so I may tell the story of the eye that sees all as it was; help me telling this tale of love, fear and a tragic destiny._

My name is Michele Rocha. I come from a family that is not rich, nor poor, though my father had to struggle so that I could grow up with all the privileges he thought I deserved. For that, I could have become an irritant and spoiled person – but I didn't. The prejudice I had to face ever since I was little helped me that way, as well as it developed my personality the way it is now.

Sometimes, these days, I wonder if things would've been different if people hadn't looked at me with disdain because of my skin tone. Or maybe, if it would've been just the same if my father hadn't insisted that I should never resign, because that was the way he managed to make our lives comfortable. I see myself thinking of every action, every step, and I imagine that I could've changed the outcome of this story if I just knew what was about to come.

But of course it is nonsense. There's no way to change anyone's fate.

My story starts when I was 26, had just bought my new apartment, and was about to graduate in Civil Engineering – just two more semesters, and it would be finally over. I already got a job, that had got nothing to do with my course, but at least gave me money enough for my daily needs and for paying the bills in the end of the month.

Yet, that was the exact problem. My money would go _only_ for those two things, and that kind of exasperated me.

So, I started asking for my friends if anyone wanted or could afford sharing the apartment, but the answer, at first, was only 'no'. Really, it was just too annoying. I wouldn't give up, _of course_, but when there was just two weeks before the classes started, I realized I needed a B plan. I was about to start distributing pamphlets of "Want to share an apartment? Call xxxx-xxxx and make someone happy!" (well, not _exactly_ like that…) when a friend of a friend got interested and called. After that, tons of people suddenly started to show up, and I suddenly could pick the best one to share my recently bought beauty.

To make it brief: after a few visitors, I found the perfect person.

She was 23, studied at the same university as I did, was already doing the first part of her Course's Conclusion Work (which I have no idea of how is called in English) and already had a job. Apart from that, from what I could see when we talked, she was very clean, organized and seemed nice enough to live with. Just perfect.

Her name was Clarisse Scempio Schmidt. She was a tall, thin, beautiful woman with an angel's face, sweet words and sharp purplish eyes. Seriously, I had never seen such a beautiful iris color in my life, and I believe I never will again. Her hair was short, with Chanel haircut, of a faded black color – but not grey, do not misunderstand me –, and her skin was pale, creamy and soft. When she moved to live with me, sharing the bills and all, I truly believed we would get on well, and from the casualty that was our meeting, from the fact that we accidentally were connected by a complex net of friends and relatives I believed that all the coincidences would just mean that we could actually become good friends. But I was right, and I was wrong – we did become good friends, but there are no such things as coincidences.

It was February when our lives started to settle down to how they should be; it was May when they changed completely, turning our worlds upside down. At first we had no idea that a simple meeting could cause such an overturn, but one thing leads to another, and when you see…

But first things first. So, it was May. The unbearable heat of the summer was finally cooling down, making the life in the city feel a little more comfortable. The wind that blew back then was already refreshing, and going to college by bus didn't seem as bad as before – though it wasn't any good, either. I was coming back home from a tiresome morning, ready to eat anything for lunch and then go straight to the classes again when something caught my attention. Well, you see, when I get out of the bus, I still have to walk about three blocks to the right in a fairly large avenue, and then turn left and walk more two blocks. And, you know, just when I turn left there is this small plaza, or square, or whatever it is called in English. There are a lot of those in the city where I live, but this one always made me think why it was made in the first place, because it was basically a triangle with three or four benches and lots of trees around. Just that.

That day, though, it wasn't just that. It was that with a boy sat in one of those benches. I know, I know, that doesn't really change much at first sight, but when I gave a better look at the kid – who seemed about 14 or 15 years old – I immediately realized he was lost. And so I stopped. Well, I am known for being stubborn, for getting easily angry – but I'm not insensitive. At first I observed him, to see if he _was_ really lost or if it was just my impression, and no doubt about it; his expression was so puzzled, so troubled, confused and annoyed that I no longer hesitated. I stepped forward and asked:

- Tu tá perdido?

He rose his head, looking even more puzzled, and then answered:

- Excuse me?

Oh, great. A foreigner.

- Are you lost? – I repeated the question, cursing myself for my bad pronunciation. Yet, I didn't really have to worry about that. His eyes glittered full of hope just by listening to his own language.

- Yes, I am. – he answered.

- Where are your parents? - he didn't seem to like the question, for his expression turned darker and sullen.

- I came here by myself. – he hesitated. – I am not in Italy, am I?

- No… - I _really_ tried not to smile. I mean, Italy is across the ocean…

- Damn. – he mumbled to himself, then looked at me again. – I think my stepmother put me in the… hm… wrong plane.

- And why would she do that?

- Ah, she hates me. – he shrugged, looking not very preoccupied. Not preoccupied _at all_, I would say.

- Do you have anywhere to stay?

- No.

I know this will sound crazy and all, but I was feeling so generous and adorable that day… And the poor kid looked so helpless and harmless…

- Hey, would you want to spend the night in my place? – I smiled, and he glared at me, very suspicious. We spent some time that way, staring at each other, and I started to feel stupid for making the question when he finally answered:

- Alright.

- Alright?

- Yeah.

So, apparently, he decided I did not represent a menace to him. Great. Well, it _was_ great, wasn't it?

- Fine. – I said.

- So… what is your name?

- Michele. Michele Rocha. And yours?

He gave me a smile that felt too creepy for a boy of his age.

- Nico. Nico di Angelo.


End file.
